


The World Could End Right Now

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Fluff, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 13:51:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Do you think you would’ve come out?” you say. “You know, if it hadn’t changed?”Mickey scoffs, but his smile gives him away. “How the fuck should I know?”“I’m just saying, it’s real convenient that the world ended before you got to know thejoyof being out and proud.”“Shut up.”





	The World Could End Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if "zombie apocalypse fluff" is a thing but I'm inventing it now if it's not lol
> 
> I just started watching this show this month (I'm mid Season 5) and god, Ian and Mickey's dynamic is so fucking good
> 
> This little world they're in is obviously AU but it's supposed to be loosely canon-based up until 3x05

He kisses you before the heist. It’s how you know, before he actually says it. His shirt’s all torn up and he’s sweaty from the summer sun, the strap pushed behind his back, when he runs back into the open door of the van. Mickey Milkovich kisses you hard, flashes a shit-eating grin, and then darts out after his cousins into Ned Lishman’s mansion, and you think you wouldn’t care if he were covered in blood and guts, so long as he always came back, to kiss you proud.

 

“Don’t fuck up!” you call after him, and he shows you his middle finger before disappearing inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rowdy teenage years that you and Mickey spent robbing your exes’ rich ex-wives, stealing expensive bags and bolting from the cops, have paid off now that the world is a shithole zombie apocalypse. The Gallaghers were raised on hard luck. If the six of you could survive the south side when it was run by humans, you sure as hell can survive it run by zombies.

 

The house has long been boarded up. You, Lip, Fiona, Debbie, Carl, and Liam, as always, are living in what used to be one of the county libraries. Mickey was with you too when the infestation started, the night you drove your stolen van through hoards of them, Carl shooting an AK out the window—he’d been with you since his dad kicked him out; he was family. That night, he was the one who gave the Fiona the tip about the library, had all the weapons you would need to get through hell on earth. He’d led the charge when you’d had to kill the former librarians turned flesh eating monsters to clear out the building. It was easy, because of him; crime had always been a game to him, a game he knew he was goddamned good at, always won.

 

Now, the Gallagher safehaven is rarely touched by surrounding zombies, and never by any hordes. Two years in, the species has learned what territories they cannot seize. Mickey’s fashioned landmine-IED’s around the perimeter, in a maze that only the seven of you know the way around. Even if they could slither past the mines, the chain-link fence has been decorated with zombie limbs, warning signs.

 

Your family still centers itself on dinner together every night; stacks of books with dozens of lit candles on top of them surround the table where you gather. Fiona and Debbie usually cook whatever you, Mickey, or Lip have scavenged from former stores and abandoned projects. Not much is left around anymore, but there are also aren’t many humans left either, and you and Mick filled the van up fifteen times and back when this first started; pasta, jerky, rice, alcohol, water, seasonings. Tonight, Debbie goes around the table pouring pasta into everyone’s bowls; under the table, Mickey’s hand is on your thigh, comfortable.

 

“So you guys think Frank’s one of ‘em yet?” Lip says.

 

“Hell no,” Fiona laughs. “He looks so much like one of ‘em anyhow, and smells like ‘em, too. He’s probably blending in, freeloading, eating their snacks.”

 

Mickey squeezes your leg gently, doesn’t look at you as he pushes through his pasta. “Roof after dinner?”

 

You stare at him for a while, smiling sideways; he still won’t look back, but knows you’re staring, smiles, too. “Sure.”

 

He takes a sniper rifle and vodka handle with him; you follow him up the ladder to the roof hatch, grateful for the view, noting fondly the bottle of lube you have stashed in your shorts pocket; you know what you’re both about. The sun hasn’t set yet, but almost, the south side covered in a deep, orange haze; the two of you stand at the roof’s edge, looking out at the abandoned L track, blown-up buildings, decay.

 

“It kinda feels like it’s always been like this,” you say. Mickey takes a swig from the bottle, doesn’t even flinch, pushes it in your hand.

 

“That your fucked up way of sayin’ you like it better this way?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

You drink, flinching only a little, and watch as Mickey lifts the gun, stares down the scope. He grins for a moment. Your heart leaps in your chest, eyes dancing from his pale, thick bicep to his fingers curling around the trigger. Those tattoos.

 

“Here comes one now,” he says. You use the binoculars around your neck to see what he sees, one lone, one-legged zombie, hobbling on. “Yeah, come on, you dumb bitch.”

 

Normally, Mickey waits until they stumble over the land mines, lose their legs, but this time, he’s feeling merciful. Perfect a marksman as ever, he nails the bullet right through the middle of its head. You watch it gargle blood and brains, fall to the ground.

 

“Do you think you would’ve come out?” you say, done with the binoculars, handing the bottle back to him. “You know, if it hadn’t changed?”

 

Mickey scoffs, but his smile gives him away. “How the fuck should I know?”

 

“I’m just saying, it’s real convenient that the world ended, before you got to know the... _joy_ of being out and proud.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Mickey chuckles, takes another swig, then steps up to the ledge of the roof’s edge, spreading his arms wide.

 

“Hey, guess what?” he yells to the empty world, as the sun sinks below the horizon. “I’m fucking gay! You hear that? I’m fucking gay, I like cock, I like this guy up my asshole!”

 

Steps back down, shoots you a look, puts the bottle down. “Happy now?”

 

You could just kiss him, so you do; wrap your hand around the back of his neck, feel him place his hand over yours, vice grip it. He opens his mouth, lets you glide your tongue across his; he tastes like vodka; your skin burns.

 

“I am happy,” you pull back to say, breathless, but he chases your mouth. Takes your hand and brings it to his crotch, letting you palm his erection.

 

“So‘m I.”

 

You know he is, even if he took this opportunity to make a crude joke, because when you pull his shirt off, unzip his jeans, the way he looks at you is so fucking _affectionate,_ you might die. He’s all sweet, longing anticipation; watching you undress yourself, biting his lip, his eyes somber. It was always this way before, even if his thick words betrayed him and even when he used to catch himself, change the look on his face. Now, he doesn’t care to change.

 

“I want you to do it,” you say, standing naked, fishing the lube from your discarded shorts. You throw it at him, making your point clear.

 

“Shit. Yes, sir, Gallagher.”

 

You're on your back on the ground, his clothes and yours underneath you on the gravel, watching as Mickey gets on his knees, hovers over you. You stroke yourself, his eyes appreciating every inch of you; you silently appreciate that he's slicking up the hand that says 'F U C K.' You smile and groan as you watch the 'U' under his knuckle, glossy with lube, slide in and out of you.

 

"What?" he prompts, at your smiling.

 

"Use more fingers."

 

He grabs your thigh to pull you closer, works with you a second, 'C.' 

 

"I want more."

 

So he fucks you with 'U' 'C' and 'K'.

 

He laughs. "You want the whole fucking hand?"

 

You laugh back, "I want your whole fucking dick."

 

Mickey doesn't need to be told that twice; slathers his cock with more lube, presses into you; it's been a while since you've taken it. He moves slow at first, inching in, cursing, "fuck, you're tight." You need him to be closer, wrap your hands around his back, gripping his ass and pulling him in deeper. He starts up a rhythm, then, and you, unabashed, bring your hands to the back of his neck again. Pull him in to kiss you, unashamed that you can, and he kisses back, moaning, hips bucking out of control.

 

You wrap your hand around yourself and come, all over your chest and even on his, and he follows you moments after, collapsing on top of you for a while. He used to push you off him, afterwards, but he hasn't in a long time, won't anymore. You let him lay on top of you, holding him close you both catch your breath.

 

The world could end right now, and you’d be satisfied. Here, in his arms, knowing you are loved. He hasn't said it yet, and neither have you, but you know. You've both always known. 


End file.
